


Christine and the Angel

by Mertens



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Gen, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, sir that’s my emotional support angel/sewer goblin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 05:38:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17677439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertens/pseuds/Mertens
Summary: Christine Daaé’s anxieties usually get the better of her, but with the patience and teaching of a kind angel, she slowly learns to be brave enough to improve her singing on stage... And maybe even brave enough to meet a ghost.





	Christine and the Angel

For as long as Christine Daaé could remember, she had been frightened of very many things. 

She remembered being frightened of the dark as a small child, unable to fall asleep unless her papa told her story after story about angels. There had been things in the daytime, too, to be afraid of - not having enough money to buy dinner, of whether the other girls in the village would tease her over her shabby dress and worn shoes, of the goat that lived at the edge of the market who would charge at her with those big horns, of those big black birds with shiny feathers that would perch in the trees and peer down at her with gleaming eyes in a way that convinced her they were up to no good. 

There were even _more_ things to be afraid of when she got older and had to live with the Professor and Mamma Valerious - whether or not she could keep up her grades in school, what she was going to do with her life after she finished school, and what would become of her should something happen to her elderly caretakers? Some nights she could scarcely sleep at all because of the thoughts swirling in her head. She had brought it up, sometimes, to Mamma who had assured her that as she got older she would outgrow such worries and fears and they wouldn’t be so bad anymore. 

Christine’s greatest fear after hearing those words unfortunately came true - she did not outgrow the racing heartbeats and sweaty hands and the jumbled thoughts and dizzy spells. Not when she finished school, not when she enrolled in the Conservatoire, not when she completed her studies there, not even when she gained entrance to work at the Opera Populaire - her near endless worry was a constant companion to her through it all. 

She confided her feelings to her dear friend Meg one day, who had been very sympathetic to her plight and supportive of her, telling her how brave she thought Christine was to still do so much even though she so nervous all of the time. Still, Christine didn’t feel brave - she felt silly and _wrong_ and she hated it. She hated being the only girl her age to have to sleep with a lamp near her bed, hated how she screamed at sudden loud noises, hated how she had fainted when she found the dead mouse in her dresser that one of the other dancers had placed there to scare her, hated how she couldn’t stop worrying over things she knew there was no point in worrying over. 

Sometimes when walking down long hallways - and there were ever so many long hallways at the Opera Populaire - she was afraid that someone was going to suddenly jump out and scare her, and the longer the hallway was the stronger the thought became until she could barely stand it. She often took to singing to herself in times like those, just old Swedish folk songs or hymns from church, anything to take her mind off her fears. If she was alone - and she was often alone - she would sing, and focusing on her song made her feel a little better. 

It was during one of those times she thought she was alone that _someone_ heard her singing. 

Erik just _had_ to find the source of that heavenly singing. He had never heard anything so sweet, so pure - it was perfection. He nearly fell over with shock when he saw it was one of ballet rats, a mere chorus girl. He remembered that he had seen her on stage before, her long hair more memorable than her singing. She had never sounded like this on stage. Why? He followed her, curious, wanting to hear more of that lovely song she was bringing to life, hiding behind a curtain here and a pillar there, an unseen shadow floating behind the little singer. 

The beauty of her song was rudely interrupted, however, when a figure jumped out from behind a door and shouted. It even gave Erik pause by the suddenness of it, but he felt no fear of being seen, confident that he was well concealed. 

Christine, however, was not so lucky. She screamed aloud and dropped to her knees as Joseph Boquet, the scene mover who had jumped out at her, laughed and laughed as though her fear was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. She scrambled to her feet and ran down the hallway, sobbing into her hands. 

Erik snarled from behind a curtain. How dare that man! How dare he! Erik slipped into a secret corridor, any thoughts of revenge on this man fading away to be replaced by concern for the poor singer and how upset she had seemed. He had to check on her. 

Sure enough he found her in another hallway, still running and crying, managing to watch through a crack in the wall as she entered through the door to the last dressing room on the left and slam the door behind her. He followed the tunnel that led to behind the mirror in that room. 

Christine locked her door and flung herself on her couch, letting the pillow soak up her tears. She was angry at Buquet and ashamed of her own reaction, and worst of all _she was still frightened_. The adrenaline rushed through her, making her knees shake and her hands tremble. 

Erik was struck with compassion for the poor girl, longed to be able to confort her somehow, though he knew it would be impossible for him to do so. He pressed a hand against the glass of the mirror, watching her shoulders shake as she sobbed. 

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. 

“Please, dry your eyes, child - it will be okay.”

Christine instantly froze. Was there someone in her room with her? She broke out in a cold sweat. 

“Who is there?” she sat up and looked around. “Where are you, monsieur?”

Erik paused. 

“No,” he said finally. “There is no monsieur - just a Voice.”

Her hands clenched around the pillow as she placed it in front of her as though to shield herself. 

“Are- are you ghost?” she cringed. 

She desperately hoped the Voice didn’t belong to a ghost, because if so, that meant someone had died here and she didn’t want to have think about all that right now. 

Erik could see the fear etched into her face. No, he couldn’t be a ghost, that would only frighten her more... But he certainly couldn’t be honest, either - his face was far worse than a ghost, he couldn’t do that to her. 

“I am not a ghost, I am- I am an angel,” he paused, waiting to see how she would take it. 

Her brow furrowed for a moment, but she placed the pillow aside and relaxed just slightly. 

“Oh,” she breathed. 

“Are you alright, child? What is your name?”

She rubbed a hand over her face. 

“Yes, I was just frightened is all. My name is Christine.”

She very nearly added that she _wasn’t_ a child - she was almost twenty-one, but she supposed to an angel even being twenty-one was still a child. 

“Chris _tine_...” he repeated, the syllables rolling off of his tongue like the finest of silk. 

She shivered. 

“There is no need to be frightened, Christine. All is well.”

“Why are you here, angel?”

“To see you, of course,” the Voice chuckled, and her eyes widened. 

“Me?” she squeaked. “Why me?”

“Because I heard your singing, my dear. For a moment I was confused because I thought that surely your voice belonged to one of my own kind.”

She blushed at the angel’s compliment. 

“Thank you, angel,” she ducked her head, embarrassed. 

Erik’s heart skipped a beat to see the pretty blush across her face and that shy, sweet smile. He found his own face breaking into a grin - an expression he hadn’t worn in years - and he vowed to himself that he would do whatever it took to be able to see that lovely smile on her face as often as he could. 

“But, Christine, my dear - why do you not sing like this on stage? You could surely rival the greatest of divas if you did. You have been holding back. Why is that?”

The smile faded and she wrung her hands. 

“Because I get too nervous, angel,” she looked at the ground, ashamed. “When I get on the stage, I become nervous about my singing - how I will sound, what the audience will think of me, if I’ll be able to remember all my lines and cues and choreography. But when I was singing just earlier, I wasn’t thinking about my singing at all - I was nervous about- about _something else_ and so I didn’t have any nerves to spare for my singing.”

Erik was silent a moment, thinking about all she had said. 

Christine frowned a little and wiped away a tear that trailed down her face. 

“It’s so silly, I know, but I can’t help it,” she sniffled. 

“No, no, Christine!” he rushed to console her. “It’s not silly at all! It makes perfect sense, in fact. But... Surely, if it were possible, you would _like_ to sing better on stage, yes?”

She looked up, thoughtful. 

“I don’t think it’s possible, angel,” she said ruefully. 

“But _if_ , Christine, if it were-! Would you?” he insisted. 

“Well, yes, I would... But-“

“I can teach you, Christine,” he hesitated. “If you’d like...”

“Oh, angel - you would do that for me?”

“Of course - it would nearly be a crime to let a voice as beautiful as yours go unheard!”

And so Christine began to take lessons from the Voice in her dressing room. She found she could talk to the angel just as easily as she could talk to Meg, and she confided in him just the same. He was always comforting, always understanding of her mortal weaknesses and failings, and she always felt better after speaking to him and safe in his presence. As a teacher he was strict, but never harsh - he expected her best effort and she, in turn, always strove to give it to him. As the months went by and she had lessons with him nearly every day, she noticed her singing on the stage slowly but surely began to improve - and to her delight, he noticed as well and complimented her thoroughly for it. On some occasions she would perform poorly again, usually due to an increase in nerves over something. She would be quite upset with herself after such a performance, but he never was, instead assuring her that such a lapse was not permanent and she would be up to par again in no time if she simply relaxed and didn’t focus on her mistakes. 

In addition to singing better on stage, she found that she sometimes had respite from her nervousness in other times during the day as well, thanks to his advice and encouragement. When she went down long hallways she reminded herself of all the times someone did _not_ jump out at her, and whenever she was afraid that one of her friends was mad at her she’d recount to herself all the evidence that this was _not_ the case, and whenever she heard the whispers and talk from the other girls about the dreadful ghost that haunted the opera house she didn’t feel any fear - for what had she to fear from a ghost when an angel was watching over her? 

Except- 

Except as time went on, Christine began to have her doubts about whether the angel was truly an angel after all... 

It had started one day when they were talking as they usually did after her lesson had ended. She had been happily recounting to him the tale of Meg sneaking her a raspberry filled pastry during ballet rehearsals, and how delicious it was. 

“Hmm. I have always preferred the cheese filling, but I suppose raspberry is good as well,” he had said. 

She paused, curious. 

“Do angels eat, then?”

He realized his error. 

“They can,” he supplied quickly. 

She nodded. 

“Angel?”

“Yes?”

“What is it like in heaven?” she asked wistfully, thinking of her parents. 

Erik had never tried too hard to imagine what heaven would be like, certain that he himself would not be going there. If asked what heaven would be to him, he would swiftly reply that heaven was spending time with Christine. But that was certainly not an answer that would do here. 

“Oh, it’s- it’s quite... Heavenly,” his words fell flat. 

She bit her lip. 

“I suppose it’s not really something mortals can understand, not truly, unless they’ve seen it,” she said, a little sad. 

“Yes, that’s very true,” he quickly agreed. 

She nodded, looking downcast. Erik’s heart twisted at the sight of her. He so longed to hold her in his arms and wipe away her tears, but no - he must remain nothing more than an angel to her. It was the only way he could remain in her presence. 

“But do not worry yourself over it too much, my dear,” he added hastily. “You have plenty to focus on in the here and now, you know.”

“Of course, angel,” she nodded again. 

Desperate to change the subject and find something to cheer her, he began to ramble without thinking. 

“I had a dream about you last night, Christine - a dream that you were the prima donna of the Opera Populaire! And do you know, I believe that by this time next year, if you keep putting in the work that you’ve been doing up till now, that this dream will very likely come to pass!”

He left out the part of dream where she had also worn his gold ring on her finger - _that_ part of the dream would surely never come to pass, anyway. 

She looked up, surprised. He thought perhaps it was surprise at hearing she could be prima donna, but- 

“Do- do you sleep, too, angel?”

He was silent a long moment, unsure of how he should answer. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Even angels must rest sometimes, Christine.”

Christine said nothing. The seed of doubt began to germinate in her mind, and it sprouted and grew in a garden that she tended to regularly - her thoughts during all hours often turned to the curious situation with the angel. She had never heard of angels who needed to eat and sleep. A few seemingly innocent questions placed here and there also seemed to confirm her fears - he spoke poorly of people he didn’t like (his distaste for Carlotta seemed endless, once she had gotten him started on the subject), he had spent a great deal of time stalling when she had asked him what his favorite Bible verse was, he seemed to not have as wide of a reach of knowledge as she’d have expected from an angel (he didn’t know her middle name, nor where she had lived in the years between Sweden and France, and when she had asked him a question in her native tongue he had awkwardly admitted that he didn’t understand what she was asking) - if he truly was an angel, he was a very poor one, she thought to herself. 

And if he wasn’t an angel, that meant he must be just a man. To think - all these months spent talking to a _man_ in her dressing room, all alone with him! What if he was lying to her because he had _untoward intentions_ towards her? The very thought made her feel nauseated. But there had been no hint of such a thing during all of those hours and hours they had spent together - if he really was a man, he seemed content to continue to masquerade as an angel and nothing more. Why would someone do that, though? Her thoughts raked over and over all of the questions, and it made her nervous at times. She would wring her hands and twist nervously on her chair as she waited for him to announce his presence, certain that this would be the time she would confront him over his deception, that she would demand to know exactly why he was hiding like this - but then the Voice would wrap around her, and all her fears would melt away. Of course her Angel meant her no harm, how could she have ever thought otherwise? He had been generous and kind to her for so long, never asking anything in return. If the day came that that ever changed, she would deal with it then. Until then... Well, what harm was there in it? Let him pretend, and she would too, just so long as that warm voice was always there to greet her and inquire how her day had been and say such sweet words to her. 

Erik felt guilty sometimes, standing behind the mirror and watching the innocent, trusting look on her face as she talked to her angel. Occasionally she’d ask a question he’d struggle to answer, and at times he feared the charade would surely be up, but she always seemed to accept whatever answer he managed to cobble together, and at this rate he assumed he could continue to be her angel for years to come - a prospect he quite looked forward to. An angel couldn’t hold her, of course, and an angel certainly couldn’t dare to kiss her hand, and an angel could not take her for a walk on Sundays - but an angel _could_ talk to her, and Erik felt that was far more than he deserved, so he contented himself with that. He had realized that somewhere along the line his feelings for her had grown into something else entirely, and he bitterly regretted his horrible face that would surely frighten her half to death. So her intangible angel he must remain, for she wouldn’t be able to bear the truth. Still, it wasn’t all bad - the time he spent with her was the highlight of his days, hearing her sing and seeing her smile and knowing that she trusted him enough to confide in him and that she while she was frightened of nearly everything else, she was never afraid or nervous around him. 

Yes, he assumed that their unique situation of angel and student could continue indefinitely. It was, however, not to be. 

It had started normally enough, with him wrapped in his hat and cape, carrying a small oil lantern to help see in the darkest areas, stepping over broken wooden crates and discarded rags, lurking in a small tunnel behind the mirror in the ballet room where the girls were practicing. Class was over for the day, and the girls were sitting in a circle, stretching and sharing gossip. 

“Christine,” Meg addressed her. “You did so wonderful on stage yesterday! I never thought you had it in you!”

The other girls chimed in their agreement, and Christine’s face turned red from all the praise. 

“Whatever is your secret?”

“How did you improve so much?”

Christine picked nervously at her pointe shoes and murmured something about taking lessons from a new tutor. 

Erik leaned in close, trying to hear what else she would say. He was so focused on catching the next part of the conversation that he carelessly leaned against the oil lantern he had placed on the floor, knocking it over. 

The clang of the metal against stone made the girls jump and squeal. Even more concerning, on the other side of the mirror some of the refuse on the ground had gotten oil spilled on it and was quickly going up in flames. Panicked, he took stock of the situation - the fire was likely self-limiting, once the discarded draperies and old costumes burned away there was nothing else close by to catch fire. His main concern became the amount of smoke that was swiftly amassing in such a small and enclosed area. He couldn’t go back the way he had come, to do so would be to risk coming too close to the flames. But he had to do _something_ or else he was about to truly become a ghost after all. 

He turned to glass and banged on it with a fist, desperately hoping to frighten the girls away before he had to enter the ballet room to escape the smoke. Christine was out there - he couldn’t let her see him! She must never know! But time was running out. He coughed and swore as the world became murky and out of focus. 

The girls jumped up and shrieked, running out of the room. 

“The ghost!” they cried. “The ghost is here!”

It wasn’t until the group was well away from the ballet room that Meg realized Christine was not with them. Poor Christine! She must have fainted clean away! Meg felt awful for leaving her friend behind like that - Christine might have improved on stage lately, but she was still as timid as a mouse... Surely seeing the ghost would push her right over the edge! 

Christine Daaé sat on the floor and stared at the mirror. The noises had frightened her terribly, but she would recognize that Voice anywhere - even if it was currently rattling off swears and curses instead of sweetly complimenting her. 

Erik could wait no longer. He opened the secret door on the side of the mirror and smoke billowed out before he stepped through. He took in great lungfuls of air and as his head cleared he realized that the corner of his cape had caught fire as well. 

He realized with a sinking heart that the lone ballerina who had stayed in the room was Christine. His poor Christine - her fear must have rooted her to the spot. And now - black smoke billowing out around him, a dark figure emerging from the shadows and sweeping off its cape before throwing it to the ground - he was certain he looked the complete opposite of an angel. It was a sight that would have surely sent even the bravest of the ballet rats screaming with fear. His curiosity had been his utter destruction, Christine would surely hate him now, and any moment she would run away in hysterical tears, he was certain of it. It was all over for them now. There would be no more lessons, no more glorious afternoons and mornings spent listening to her songs, no more hearing her sweet voice greeting him. She would loathe and revile and shun him, now. 

But instead she merely sat where she was, her eyes flickering over him, taking in his tall frame dressed all in black, the stark white mask covering his face, the piercing golden eyes - and a smile formed on her face. Her eyes met his and her smile only grew, no trace of fear in her eyes. 

“Hello, Angel. It’s so nice to finally see you!”


End file.
